I ran a hand over my mouth. "Shit."
"You are made of stars. They're inside you, and even on your worst day, they don't stop shining for you. Don't ever forget that."
I bobbed my head, gulped down a whole lot of emotion that seemed disproportionate to a story about hemoglobin and supernovas. "Shit."
"Yeah. Right? I mean, sometimes I think about the creation of the universe and how everything matters, but also nothing matters, and—"
"All right," Nick interrupted, dropping a hand to his wife's shoulder and pulling her to his side. "I'm calling this meeting of the sad and broody kids club to an end for the night. Y'all can wait until next week to dip into the existentialism and the nihilism, okay? Thank you." He shook his head at me. "I don't know why I bring you home with me sometimes, Stremmel, but you have the dying star story now. Everything's going to work out."
"Is that what happens after she tells the star story?" I asked.
"No," he admitted. "But things don't usually get worse."
Chapter 33
Sebastian
Milana glanced at me before cutting a subtle glimpse at the wall clock over my head. Patience pulled at the corners of her lips, which was generous considering my expression hovered somewhere around twenty degrees below freezing. My head was still killing me so frozen was the best I could offer. This was my best.
"I'm sure Dr. Shapiro will be along any minute," Milana said. "It's not like her to be late. I'm sure she'd send word if something was keeping her."
I lifted my brow, giving her some you have no idea what this woman is about eyes. Hell, I didn't know what this woman was about and I'd dedicated a fuck-ton of my life to figuring her out. What did I have to show for it? Not a whole lot.
Milana gave a slightly less subtle glance at the clock before reaching for her phone. She tapped the screen and started scrolling. I stared at my hands. This was the last time Sara would be required to speak to me and fuck if that didn't scare the shit out of me. She could move out of the building, she could leave Boston altogether. She could go and I'd always be the fool who dropped way too much on her, way too fast.
"Yeah," I agreed. "She's probably on her way."
Then, in full-blooded form, Sara blew into the office, her hair pushing the limits of what could be considered a bun, her black glasses askew, a stethoscope this close to falling off her neck, and her cheeks flushed pink.
"Sorry," she wheezed. "Sorry. I was on the elevator. It went up to five, then down to one, then back to five. Wouldn't stop anywhere else. Super weird. Finally got off at one. Took the stairs. So many stairs."
"It's all right," Milana said. "We're just happy you're able to join us."
I watched Sara as she dropped down onto the sofa, her chest still heaving. The elevator issue had distracted her to the point that she seemed to forget I was close enough to see the outline of her bra under her t-shirt and the tiny, wispy curls that congregated at the back of her neck. It'd distracted her enough to forget everything. Somehow, that was something she could do.
I didn't have that particular superpower.
Milana glanced between us, some kind of interest written on her face, but nothing I could decode right now. I didn't care to decode it. I couldn't take my eyes off Sara. I never could.
"Oftentimes when I reach the end of a therapeutic relationship, I find it valuable to reflect on where we started. I hope that you are both able to see the changes and progress that I see. Let's start off by identifying some of that progress."
Sara blinked over at me, then quickly away. She reached into her coat pocket for her phone, clicked it over to silent. Why that hurt so fucking much, I didn't know. Maybe it was the casual dismissal. Maybe it was the fact her hands were shaking and I wanted to take them in mine, even if it meant I'd have another regret to add to the pile later.
Since I had no restraint, I said to her, "You're going to lose that stethoscope if you're not careful."
"Yes, I'd most certainly lose it while sitting here. It would fall off, disappear into the recesses of this sofa without my notice, and I'd never see it again. Highly likely."
"Why do you even wear that thing? You are a surgeon. How often do you actually use it? And what the fuck do you have residents for if not borrowing a stethoscope from them as needed?"
She gave me another sidelong blink. "Is that what we've decided to harp on today? My audacious use of a stethoscope? Or would you rather delve into the matter of our differing philosophies on the training and function of residents?"
I folded my arms over my chest. "I'm just saying you don't need it."
"Then I suppose the proper way to conduct myself, in your esteemed opinion, is without any tools or resources whatsoever." She gestured to me, saying, "No white coat, no stethoscope, no notebook, no pens. Just a badge and a body."
I opened my mouth to respond yet stopped myself, all while Milana regarded me with a slight grin that seemed altogether too entertained for my taste. Eventually, I shifted fractionally toward Sara and asked, "What do you even have in there?"
She set the stethoscope on the sofa between us and then peered into her coat pocket. "Phone, pager, some pens."
As she held up each one, I plucked them from her fingers and deposited them on the coffee table. It was a fun way to avoid making prolonged eye contact and we were nothing if not great at games. "Why do you need this many pens? Again, residents. Interns. Those are the people who need to have pens."
"That's—that's not how I want to go through life. That might work for you, but I like pens. I'm keeping my pens." She reached into her other pocket. "Two snacks, some sterile gloves, a pair of thumb forceps—"
"Oh my god," I muttered.
"Would you just shut up? I use them, okay?"
I set the forceps on the table with a meaningful frown. "And then you keep them in your pocket, apparently."
She patted the thigh pocket on her scrubs. "A few more pens and my notes for the day."
"Fuck me, you really do use index cards." I shook my head as I scanned her notes. Her handwriting was so cute and precise. "Well, this is adorable."
Milana made a noise, some kind of swallowed snort, but waved us off when we turned our attention toward her. "Pardon me. Allergies. Please continue."
"Regardless of whether your assessment is appropriate or not," Sara started, "this is my choice for how I manage my work. Could I show up tomorrow without any of these things and still do a good job? Probably, yeah, but I'd get tired of asking to borrow pens and I'd be irritable without snacks on hand. Obviously, it doesn't bother you to lift stethoscopes and pens and whatever else you use from your residents, but you're not going to convince me to work that way. I'd like you to notice that I'm not asking you to work my way."
"Understood." I went back to reading her notes. She was so thoughtful and precise. Every case on a different colored card. "I'd like you to notice that you found this little thing we did here"—I gestured to the table where I'd organized the disemboweled contents of her pockets—"amusing. Some might even say fun."